


Fading Bones

by im_fairly_witty



Category: Coco (2017)
Genre: F/M, Imector
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-02-17
Updated: 2018-02-17
Packaged: 2019-03-19 17:20:33
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 943
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13709100
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/im_fairly_witty/pseuds/im_fairly_witty
Summary: What happened the first time Hector saw Imelda in the Land of the Dead?It was supposed to be the best day of Hector's death...





	Fading Bones

It was supposed to be the best day of Hector’s death.

The first few days he’d been dead (way back when his bones were still white and smooth) those had been spent in stunned denial. 

Hector wasn’t dead, he couldn’t be dead. He was still traveling with Ernesto somewhere in Mexico City and he must be hallucinating on some bad chorizo, maybe some tainted alcohol. He would wake up any minute now and this nightmare would be over. He’d never touch alcohol again, he’d rush straight home to his diosas, he’d never set foot out of Santa Cecilia again. Everything would be alright

The first few week’s he’d been dead (way back when he’d had a good set of clothes, the dark blush mariachi suit that earned respect from strangers) had been spent in aching anticipation. 

Fine. He was dead, it happened to everyone. He’d of course hoped to have so many more years with his wife and daughter, but he’d had friends growing up who’d lived only half as long as he had, and at least he would be able to see Imelda and Coco again soon. Dia de los Muertos was only a couple months away and everyone he talked to comforted him with stories of a fantastical bridge of marigold petals he’d be able to cross to visit them. Only for a night, but that was enough to cling to. 

Every bit of Hector ached deeply to see them and every night he lied to himself that he wouldn’t cry himself to sleep again. He survived by telling himself that he could make it another day. Every day that dragged by was one day closer to seeing his little mariposa, to seeing the diosa of his heart and soul. It would have to be enough, he could wait, he could make it.

He sang Coco’s song every night.

The first few months after that first Dia de los Muertos (way back when spending the night wringing his bony hands while sitting huddled in the edge of a stiff jail cell cot was a new experience) were spent in delirious fear. 

Something was wrong, something was horribly, terribly wrong. Everyone had said he’d be able to cross, everyone had said the marigold petals would hold his weight,  _ everyone had said he’d be able to go home. _

No one had said he’d fall right through on the first step, no one had said crossing agents would have to pull him back out, no one had said they’d keep him from trying to cross again, that after frantically fighting back ( _ you don’t understand, I need to cross, I haven’t seen them in a year I have to cross LET ME GO I HAVE TO SEE TO THEM _ ) would land him in a cell for a long week of slowly tearing himself apart with worry, vertibrea by vertebrea.

The first few years he’d been dead (way back when his annual schemes to cross the bridge illegally were still “Plan B,” because Imelda had to realize he as dead this year, and then he would be on the ofrenda, it had to be this year) were spent in reckless hope.

But the next few years after that were not. 

And the next few years after that were the dark ones.

The next few years after those were the wasted ones.

And the few years after that were the empty ones.

By the time Hector had spent fifty years alone in the Land of the Dead, he wasn’t sure if he even remembered their faces anymore. 

He’d seen his songs come over the marigold bridge with new, unrecognizably campy rhythms and a new musician’s name attached to them. He’d seen his old childhood friend arrive to the cheers of millions, an unrecognizable superstar now that hadn’t so much as looked at the lanky and battered skeleton who’d tried to get his attention in the crowd. 

And if these parts of his old life had become unrecognizable…then maybe…

But no. He hadn’t believed it. Hadn’t allowed himself to even think about it. He knew it was a matter of time before Imelda passed, he’d counted every year of her age, she’d lasted  _ so _ long. He’d lain awake for decades planning his apology, planning what he’d say, what he’d do when he saw her again. He could make it another day because it would be one day closer to seeing Imelda.

He’d loved her so long and so loyally and so desperately that he’d never let himself consider that she might no longer love him. It had stalked the dark edges of his thoughts for years, but Imelda was the only thing that held his yellowing bones together anymore and he  _ had _ to hold onto that. 

The possibility that she’d chosen to keep his photo off the ofrenda? That she had moved on, that she hated him with every bone in her skeleton, might scream at him through the hot tears running down her face when they finally met again, that she might physically attack him before he was pulled out of the room by gaurds, that she would forbid him from ever coming near her again, that Hector would have to limp back to his shanty alone that night and that he would spend maybe a week just standing there in his room alone, staring at all the nothing he had and waiting for the shattered bits of his soul to pull together like his bones would when they were scattered, but that they never would. 

He’d never considered it. Because if something like that were true, it would have completely destroyed him.

And it did.

**Author's Note:**

> For more of my Coco ramblings and headcanon, you can check me out over on Tumblr! Not all of them are this gut-wrenching, just many. ;)
> 
> \- Wit
> 
> im-fairly-whitty.tumblr.com


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